Pray, do not regale the troubles of ill health
Not self, not kin, not of the old woman
At the road’s end
I will spare no time nor in mercy yield wealth
Nor thought, nor feeling, nor shrouds woven
To tempt luck’s end
Pray, tell me of deep chasms crossed
Not left, not turned, not of the betrayals
Breeding like worms
I would you cry out your rage ‘gainst what is lost
Now strong, now to weep, now to make fist and rail
On earth so firm
Pray, sing loud the wretched glories of love
Now pain, now drunken, now torn from all reason
In laughter and tears
I would you bargain with the fey gods above
Nor care, nor cost, nor turn of season
To wintry fears
Sing to me this and I will face you unflinching
Now knowing, now seeing, now in the face
Of the howling storm
Sing your life as if a life without ending
And your love, sun’s bright fire, on its celestial pace
To where truth is born
– Pray, an end to inconsequential things, Baedisk of Nathilog
Darujhistan. Glories unending! Who could call a single deed inconsequential? This scurrying youth with his arms full of vegetables, the shouts from the stall in his wake, the gauging eye of a guard thirty paces away, assessing the poor likelihood of catching the urchin. Insignificant? Nonsense! Hungry mouths fed, glowing pride, some fewer coins for the hawker, perhaps, but it seemed all profit did was fill a drunken husband’s tankard anyway so the bastard could die of thirst for all she cared! A guard’s congenitally flawed heart beat on, not yet pushed to bursting by hard pursuit through the crowded market, and so he lives a few weeks longer, enough to complete his full twenty years’ service and so guarantee his wife and children a pension. And of course the one last kiss was yet to come, the kiss that whispered volumes of devotion and all the rest.
The pot-thrower in the hut behind the shop, hands and forearms slick with clay, dreaming, yes, of the years in which a life took shape, when each press of a fingertip sent a deep track across a once smooth surface, changing the future, reshaping the past, and was this not as much chance as design? For all that intent could score a path, that the ripples sent up and down and outward could be surmised by decades of experience, was the outcome ever truly predictable?
Oh, of course she wasn’t thinking any such thing. An ache in her left wrist obliterated all thoughts beyond the persistent ache itself, and what it might portend and what herbs she would need to brew to ease her discomfort- and how could such concerns be inconsequential?
What of the child sitting staring into the doleful eye of a yoked ox outside Corb’s Womanly Charms where her mother was inside and had been for near a bell now, though of course Mother had Uncle-Doruth-who-was-a-secret for company which was better than an ox that did nothing but moan? The giant, soft, dark-so-dark brown eye stared back and to think in both directions was obvious but what was the ox thinking except that the yoke was heavy and the cart even heavier and it’d be nice to lie down and what could the child be thinking about but beef stew and so no little philosopher was born, although in years to come, why, she’d have her own uncle-who-was-a-seeret and thus like her mother enjoy all the fruits of marriage with few of the niggling pits.
And what of the sun high overhead, bursting with joyous light to bathe the wondrous city like a benediction of all things consequential? Great is the need, so sudden, so pressing, to reach up, close fingers about the fiery orb, to drag it back-and back!-into night and its sprawled darkness, where all manner of things of import have trembled the heavens and the very roots of the earth, or nearly so.
Back, then, the short round man demands, for this is his telling, his knowing, his cry of Witness! echoing still, and still. The night of arrivals, the deeds of the arrived, even as night arrives! Let nothing of consequence be forgot. Let nothing of inconsequence be deemed so and who now could even imagine such things to exist, recalling with wise nod the urchin thief, the hawker, the guard. The thrower of pots and the child and the ox and Uncle Doruth with his face between the legs of another man’s wife, all to came (excuse!) in the day ahead.
Murk, too, this teller of the tale, with his sage wink. We are in the midst!
Night, shadows overlapping, a most indifferent blur that would attract no one’s notice, barring that nuisance of a cat on the sill of the estate, amber eyes tracking now as one shadow moves out from its place of temporary concealment. Out goes this errant shadow, across the courtyard, into deeper shadows against the estate’s wall. Crouching, Torvald Nom looked up to see the cat’s head and those damned eyes, peering down at him. A moment later the head withdrew, taking its wide gaze with it. He made his stealthy way to the back corner, paused once more. He could hear the gate guards, a pair of them, arguing over something, tones of suspicion leading to accusation answered by protestations of denial but Damn you, Doruth, I just don’t trust you-
– No reason not to, Milok. I ever give you one?
No-
– To Hood you ain’t. My first wife-
– Wouldn’t leave me alone, I swear! She stalked me like a cat a rat-
– A rat! Aye, that’s about right-
– / swear, Milok, she very nearly raped me-
– The first time! I know, she told me all about it, with eyes so bright!-
– Heard it made you horny as Hood’s black sceptre-
– That ain’t any of your business, Doruth-
And something soft brushed against Torvald’s leg. The cat, purring like soft gravel, back bowed, tail writhing. He lifted his foot, held it hovering over the creature. Hesitated, then settled it back down. By Apsalar’s sweet kiss, the kit’s eyes and ears might be a boon, come to think of it. Assuming it had the nerve to follow him.
Torvald eyed the wall, the cornices, the scrollwork metopes, the braided false columns. He wiped sweat from his hands, dusted them with the grit at the wall’s base, then reached up for handholds, and began to climb.
He gained the sill of the window on the upper floor, pulled himself on to it/ balanced on his knees. True, never wise, but the fall wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t even sprain an ankle, would it? Drawing a dagger he slipped the blade in between the shutters, carefully felt for the latch.
The cat, alighting beside him, nearly pitched him from the sill, but he managed to recover, swearing softly under his breath as he resumed working the lock.
– She still loves you, you know-What-
‘-She does, She just likes some variety. I tell you, Milok, this last one of yours was no easy conquest-
– You swore!-
– You’re my bestest, oldest friend. No more secrets between us! And when I
swear to that, as I’m doing now, I mean it true. She’s got an appetite so shut ing shouldn’t be a problem. I ain’t better than you, just different, that’s all
Different.-
– How many times a week, Durothl Tell me true!-
– Oh, every second day or so-
– But I’m every second day, too!-
– Odd, even, I guess. Like I said, an appetite.-
– I’ll say.-
– After shift, let’s go get drunk-
– Aye, we can compare and contrast-
